“I care nothing so long as Yolande is given back to me!” the distressed woman cried. “Was it your English friend who discovered the truth?”
“Yes,” I replied. “He is one of the cleverest men in Paris.”
“And to him my poor Yolande will owe her life?”
“Yes, to him.”
“And to you also, m’sieur? You have done your utmost for us, and I thank you warmly for it all.”
“Madame,” I said earnestly, “I have done only what a man should do. You sought my assistance, and I have given it, because—”
“Because of what?” she inquired sharply the instant I paused.
“Because I once loved her,” I responded with perfect frankness.
A sigh escaped her, and her hand sought my arm.
“I was young once, m’sieur,” she said in that calm, refined voice which had long ago always sounded so much to me like that of my own dead mother. “I understand your feeling—I understand perfectly. It is only my poor daughter who does not understand. She knows that you have forsaken her—that is all.”